A Portrait of the Artist as an Aging Diane
by samurai frasier crane
Summary: This is pure crack!fic, although I may eventually bring it to a more serious conclusion, depending on how I feel. But it's mostly just over-the-top silliness. Set in 1996 right after the Frasier episode where Diane visits and shows him her play. Right now only Diane, Frasier, and Sam (and Sally Bong, the gorgeous starlet) have made cameos, but it will eventually involve EVERYONE.
1. Life as a Pillar of Salt

_Notes: I devised this little tale after watching the Frasier episode where Diane comes back and realizing that, essentially, she'd hired an actor to date her and pretend to be Sam. Which is really fucking funny and begs to be explored in the weirdest way possible. I was imagining this at first as a silly one-shot but after contemplation realized it needs to be an EPIC INVOLVING EVERYONE. So get stoked. They're probably not perfectly in character because I made them so over-the-top, but hopefully it's funny!_

Frasier's response to the play caused Diane to realize that "Rhapsody and Requiem" still needed some serious work, but on the morning of her departure from Seattle she lacked the energy for it. After she and Stan had taken their seats on the plane – (and what the hell was his real name again? Henry? Harry? Huckleberry? She kept forgetting but was pretty sure it started with an 'H') – she removed the binder from her carry-on, but only managed to skim the first few pages before returning it. She took the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket and saw that they'd be playing "Troop West Hollywood" which, according to the blurb, was about a wealthy, self-absorbed woman running a Girl Scout troop. That sounded fun! Well, no, it didn't sound fun at all, it sounded really stupid, but she remembered seeing the starlet in something else and liking her. What was the starlet's name? Why was she suddenly forgetting everyone's name? It was Sally Bong or something like that. She dug out the headphones and was about to pop them in when Stan started blathering about something.

"Um, Diane?"

She turned to him, hoping this wouldn't take long.

"I was thinking maybe we could talk about the play…"

Oh geez. "What about the play?" she said, rather curtly.

"Well, I thought it was _done_ but now you're saying… it's just… How much longer do you think this is going to take? We've been working on it for a long time and I'd like to—"

"Stan," she said, "I'm an _artist_."

"That's another thing," he said, his nose wrinkling. "Will you stop calling me Stan? My name is Neil."

Neil! She knew it didn't start with an 'H'. "Stan, I've already explained, I'm helping you get in character."

"Um…" He looked to his hands. "I know, I've just never heard about this method anywhere els—"

"STOP QUESTIONING MY METHODS, STAN, I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING."

"Okay," he said sheepishly.

This sort of timidity was good where – what was his name? Henry? – was concerned, because it meant he did whatever she told him to, but it was no good for Stan. This was how she knew that her method was brilliant, even though she couldn't remember where she'd read about it. But she'd definitely read about it somewhere and not made it up, despite what Patrice – the insufferable bitch who played Marianne – sometimes insisted. Henry, Harry, whoever he was, needed to learn how to be Stan and she was doing her darndest to teach him.

To her annoyance she saw him extract his own copy of the script from his backpack, but she forgot about him only a few moments later when the film started. God – this actress was just so _cute!_ At this point in her life, Diane was pretty sure she wasn't a lesbian, but if anyone could turn her… Wouldn't it be so much easier to be one? She couldn't think of anything about being a lesbian that would be hard – those people just had it so easy, and what an idyllic romance she and Sally Bong would have together! She sensed that the two of them had a lot in common, which was rarely the case with the men in her life. But instead she was straight and stuck with Stan – who was having a really hard time figuring out how to be Stan – and Frasier, who had just made her feel inordinately guilty for something that she spent a huge percentage of her time trying to repress. How rude! Men were so rude!

Stan proved his fundamental rudeness midway through the movie, when he tapped her on the shoulder. She took out one headphone and looked at him balefully. "What is it, Stan?"

"I wanted to ask you about this line…"

God, why was it that every time she got on a fucking plane, someone wanted her to confront painful truths or have a traumatic near-death experience or otherwise annoy her? She just wanted to watch the goddamn in-flight movie for once! "Stan, can we do it later?"

"How much later?"

She sighed, feeling that this was more or less inescapable. "How about when we land?" she said. "Just give me a few hours to clear my head. How many times do I need to tell you that I'm an—"

"Artist?"

"Oh, I guess I did tell you."

When the movie ended she began to prepare herself for the inevitable conversation with Stan. He was just such an idiot, and not in the way he was supposed to be. He really liked her, which made sense, but was also always attempting dopey things, like serenading her with Rilke poems. Ordinarily she liked this kind of stuff, but it wasn't in character! She was trying to help him get into character and he wasn't paying any attention! Well, the not paying attention was in character at least. That was a proper "Stan thing."

At LAX they clambered into his car and headed towards his house, a little condo in Culver City – she'd been staying with him since being evicted from her own place after losing her job. "Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked. She inwardly groaned, knowing that he was proposing this because it would prevent her from slinking off to bed instead of talking about the play. She usually liked to talk about her work, but after everything with Frasier, it was – for whatever reason – making her feel uneasy. She thought there was something contained in the script that she hadn't fully understood, even while penning it. It seemed she would need to eventually consult someone about it, get some advice on what to do, but it would be very out-of-character for Stan to help. Then again, she _was_ hungry.

"What's open?" she said dully.

"Tito's?"

"I guess…"

Tito's Tacos was a dingy little restaurant, usually packed but relatively empty so late at night. They ordered their food and took a table, Stan laying out the script before her.

"I'm just having a hard time getting this," he said. "The relationship, I mean."

"What's there to get?"

"I dunno…" The cashier called their number and Stan sprang to his feet to retrieve their burritos, then quickly returned. "Like, these people are supposed to be in love, right?"

"Yes, Stan, we've been over this."

"I just don't really get why."

She scowled at him. Artists are never understood in their own times! He seemed a little cowed by her, as he always did, but nonetheless forced himself to continue.

"Why does Stan like Marianne?"

"Because," Diane said tersely, "she's a _goddess_. She's beautiful and intelligent and everything else that he's never been able to admit he yearns for desperately."

"Well, okay. But why does she like Stan?"

Diane chewed thoughtfully on a tortilla chip. Why did Marianne like Stan? This was trickier! "I don't know," she said finally. "She just does."

"You see, that's what…" He hesitated, seeming unsure if he should say what was on his mind. "I mean, as the playwright, you need to know that."

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, STAN, I'M AN ARTIST."

"My name is Neil!"

Christ, his name was Neil? She'd sworn it was Hans or Herman or something.

"Look," he continued, "I have some ideas for the character… and I wanted to run them by you, because I think the play is _good_ but it's lacking depth in some areas. I was wondering if—"

"Stan doesn't talk like this," she interrupted.

"But I'm _not_ Stan, I'm—"

"At this rate you'll never be!"

"Fine," he said, looking annoyed. "Whatever you say, _Marianne_."

She glanced up sharply from her burrito. "What did you just call me?"

"That character is you, right? I really tried to give you the benefit of the doubt – because I like you, Diane – but after everything up in Seattle… Is that friend of yours Franklin?"

"None of them are real people," she said coldly. "That's just how I make up character names. I rhyme them with names of people I know."

"Okay, what rhymes with Stan, then?"

"A lot of things. Ann… ban… can…"

"Diane—"

"Yes, that too. Dan, fan, _han_d—"

"Who is this guy?"

"I made him up!" she snapped. "I'm just really creative, okay? Have I told you that I'm an—"

"Artist?"

"Oh yes, I have told you. Anyway, where were we? Flan – well, no, that's not pronounced right. It's sort of an off-rhyme. Man, naan – again, if you mispronounce it – pan—"

"Diane, you're avoiding the point."

Fuck him! She would recite the entire alphabet to avoid the point! That's why it was there in the first place! "Ran," she continued, "Sam—"

"'Sam' doesn't rhyme with 'Stan.'"

She blinked, feeling rather surprised at this – was it a Freudian slip? No, that would mean it meant something or had something to do with the play, which it obviously didn't. "Sam wouldn't point that out," she said irritably. "He would've missed it."

"Who the hell is Sam?!"

"I said _Stan_, Stan. Will you stop obsessing over Sam?"

They continued eating their food in silence; Diane was starting to feel depressed, although she couldn't exactly pinpoint why. It was probably just the disappointment of realizing the play would need to be redrafted again. She finished half of her burrito and set it down.

"This already hurts," she said.

"What does?" Stan figured out she was talking about the food. "Oh, yeah. Tito's will do that."

"Then why do we go here?"

"I dunno." He shrugged. "It's close… And it's good."

"Why do the things that are good have to _hurt so much?_" she demanded. The injustice of this encroached upon her in a slow, methodical way, and soon she felt as if she were sinking. "I WISH I WERE DEAD!" she wailed.

Stan turned to the cashier with a look that clearly said, _Yep, sorry 'bout that, we're back_. Then he turned back to her. "Is your artistic sensitivity flaring up again?" he asked.

"You have to care more," she mumbled.

"What?"

"Stan would _care_ more."

"About what?!"

"I don't know…"

"Diane, I think maybe we need to…" He trailed off, grimacing, and seemed to change tack midway through his thought. "Take you home. I think we need to go home. You're exhausted."

She nodded weakly and they traipsed out of the restaurant. In the car she slumped against the window, not moving until she spotted some kind of dead animal along the side of the road. "Stan, what was that?" She craned her neck to look. "Was that a cat or a raccoon?"

"Forget about it."

"It looked like a raccoon when we were passing but maybe it was a cat."

"Stop looking back," he said, and a faint grin crossed his face. "You'll turn into a pillar of salt."


	2. Hair and Despair

It was lucky that, beneath the academic veneer, Frasier had some serious badassery stashed away inside of him. Otherwise, he probably wouldn't have called Sam late on a Tuesday night after Diane's departure from Seattle.

"Hello?"

Frasier heard the sound of voices. "Hi Sam… Are you at Cheers?"

"Frasier? Hey, long time no talk! How've you been?"

"All right… I'm calling because—"

"Naw, I'm not at Cheers."

"Are you busy?"

"Sort of. I'm watching South Park. Have you seen it? It's about a bunch of little boys in Colorado, but it's funny, you see, because they say really filthy things. Isn't that funny? How do people come up with this stuff?"

"Well, Sam, I just saw—"

Sam interrupted him with a shriek of laughter.

"What?" Frasier said.

"Oh, nothing. The fat one is just racist. How do people come up with this stuff?! Anyway, what were you saying, Frasier?"

"Well, actually, Diane came to vis—"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAA;AS;KLDGFAKUOA;S;HSDF; H;ASDIFOADGADSHHIOIDAJPOADAGSK'OF!" said Sam.

Okay, this was starting to get annoying. "Do you find this funny?" Frasier said.

"Yeah, it's hilarious! The fat one just got an anal probe."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Something about, uh… Freud…? Or, uh, Jung?"

"CERTAINLY NOT JUNG," said Frasier. "And, by the way, Sam, you don't pronounce the 'J'. It sounds like 'Yung.'"

"Okay, well, thanks for clearing that up. Let me know if you're ever in Boston, Fras, see you—"

"Wait!"

He heard a silence and thought maybe Sam had hung up, but then he spoke. "Were you calling for some other reason?" he asked. "I thought maybe you just wanted to explain how to pronounce Jung. What's up, Fras?"

"Well… Are you paying attention?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's a commercial."

"I saw Diane yesterday."

Another long silence.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" he said. "What'd you want to tell me, Frasier?"

"I saw—"

"So what?"

Ah, so he had heard. "Well, she's not exactly—"

"Frasier, have you seen this new WonderMop commercial? It's really excellent. How do people come up with this stuff?!"

"SAM TURN THE FUCKING TV OFF AND LISTEN TO ME FOR FIVE MINUTES."

"…I'll mute it," he said sulkily. "So, uh, what's up?"

"She's sort of in bad shape, Sam."

"Oh god, she got fat?"

"No, I didn't—"

"First Rebecca and now her? Is it me, Frasier? Am I MAKING them get fat? What the fuck is my problem? Oh god. Oh _god_."

"She's not fat, Sam."

"Oh CHRIST, did you give me a scare! What the hell did you say she's in bad shape for?"

"I meant emotionally."

"Oh." Sam considered this. "Well, duh. That's news?"

"She lost her job."

Silence.

"Sam?"

"I'm here. So, Hollywood chewed her up and spit her back out, huh? Who didn't see that one coming?" He paused. "She's still living there?"

"Yes, I think she's living with her boyfri—"

"OH MY GOD."

"Does that upset you…?"

"No, no, they're just on a spaceship now. How do people come up with this stuff? What were you saying? She's living with her boyfriend? What do I care? Who is this creep? By 'creep' I mean 'upstanding gentleman who does not interest me at all because I really don't care about this.' Frasier, I have no interest in talking about Diane."

"Well…" Frasier rolled his eyes. "I just thought you might be, Sam. I'll let you get back to—"

"Wait."

"What?"

"Uh, what's Diane up to?"

"She… she wrote a play."

"All right. Is it… is it any good?"

"To the contrary, it's pretty terrible."

Sam gave a snort of laughter.

"What, did the fat one get another anal probe?"

"No, I was laughing at Diane's crummy play. So this guy she's living with, is he tall?"

"He's pretty tall…"

"Yeah, but like, really tall? Can you round off to the nearest centimeter? I'm just really interested in how tall people are. It's an interest I've developed in my old ag–I mean, the latter, latter part of my youth."

"The play," Frasier said sharply, "is about a love triangle between a bartender named _Stan_, a waitress named Marianne, and a psychiatrist named Franklin."

"How much hair does this guy have? Can you give me an estimate, like, in terms of individual follicles? This is another passion of the latter, latter part of my youth. Counting other people's hair follicles."

"Did you listen to the description of the play, Sam?"

"Something about a love triangle? Sorry, I was thinking about my hair, and how remarkably full it still is, and how I don't wear a hairpiece EVER. Did you tell Diane that when you saw her? Not that I care or anything. I just think this should be public information."

"No, somehow the topic of your hair never came up."

"She… she didn't mention it even once?" For the first time in the conversation he sounded positively devastated. "She didn't ask about it?"

"No."

"THAT BITCH!" he wailed. "SHE NEVER EVEN LOVED ME! And now she's off in Hollywood with some tall hairy guy… What's his hair _like_, Frasier? Does he even need to style it or does he just wake up and it's already perfect? I bet he's never stepped into a toupee shop in his life. God I'm gonna be sick. What do you think is the fastest way to kill myself? I'm on the second story, do you think jumping would do it or would I just break my legs? I'm pretty tough, you know. Did I tell you I used to be a professional athlete?"

"Sam, she—"

"I mean, my hair is still pretty good for a guy my age. I'm not bald like you or anything, but it takes some effort these days. Oh, I SHOULD JUST DROP DEAD."

"Sam, her boyfriend is an actor who she pays to pretend to be you."

Silence.

"Sam?"

"Oh… oh yeah?"

"I mean, I'm not sure to what extent she's _aware_ of what she's doing… But that's definitely what she's doing."

The nonchalance returned to his voice. "Ah, that poor woman. She just could never get over me, could she? It's embarrassing. Don't you feel embarrassed for her?"

"I feel embarrassed for a few people," Frasier said stiffly.

"Well, thanks for letting me know. I can always use a good laugh."

"Sam, are you going to—"

"OH MY GOD."

"What?"

"Oh, they're just showing this movie I love after South Park. Troop West Hollywood, have you seen it? The actress – what the hell is her name? Shelley something? I think it's Sally Bong. Anyway, she's really hot. Wasn't she in a sitcom or something?"

"Yes," Frasier said. He too had succumbed to the charms of Sally Bong or whatever her name was; her successful television program and less successful movies had helped him through many a lonely night. "She plays a pseudo-intellectual receptionist at a pet cemetery, something like that. I've only seen a few episodes."

"I should watch that."

"Um, yes. But Sam, about Diane—"

"What about her?"

"Were you thinking about maybe—"

"Going to LA and sweeping her off her feet because we are obviously and irreconcilably in love and always will be?"

"Yes, something like that."

"No, it hadn't crossed my mind."


	3. Sumner Sloan, Ladykiller

Sumner was not especially surprised to receive the letter from Diane – he'd been anticipating for a while that this day would eventually come. Of course, she'd gone through some effort to disguise what she really wanted, but she was a delicate thing and he could understand. The letter simply read, "Hello Sumner, I know I've been out of touch but I've been working on a manuscript and I'm a little stuck – maybe you could give it a look? Thanks, Diane."

Upon receiving the script he began to wonder if he'd done her a disservice by encouraging her to be a writer. Then again, he'd done her a lot of disservices in the past, so it wasn't as if this was exactly anything new. Luckily he had a conference in LA later that month, so he wrote back that he'd prefer to talk to her about the play in person.

Sumner considered himself a man well-versed in human emotions, and indeed – when he walked into that dinky Culver City duplex, he could see instantly that Diane was a woman hopelessly, tragically, impossibly tormented by lost love – for him, of course. Who the hell else would it be? He knew she'd had two other fiancés, but neither of them was named Sumner Sloan, WERE THEY? What was that old saying? First is the worst, second is the best, third is the one who forgot to get dressed. No, that didn't quite work. He'd have to modify it: First is the BEST, second is the worst, third is the one who forgot to get dressed. The last didn't need any amending because the third of her fiancés would _definitely_ be the one to forget to get dressed. What was that guy's name? Shawn?

She was watching TV when he entered; back in their early courtship this would have embarrassed her, and she would have turned it off before he could notice, but perhaps years of being consumed with longing for him had made her a little less concerned about what others thought. The show, he saw, was some crudely drawn animated thing, and she was grimacing at it.

"This is just so _vulgar_," she said. "How could anyone find this funny? You'd have to be some kind of barbarian to find this funny. I mean, the poor fat one just got an anal probe. How disturbing." She looked up, finally turning off the TV. "Oh, hello Sumner. Did Stan let you in? Excuse me, I was just bored."

"Diane," he said warmly, extending his arms. She stared at him, as if wondering why he was offering them up and what she was supposed to do. Well, she was probably just shy and intimidated by his brilliance.

"I wouldn't have contacted you if I wasn't _completely_ desperate," she began in a small voice.

God, did that woman know what to say to get a guy's motor running!

"I'm just… so stuck. I contacted one of my old colleagues from when I worked on Dr. Quinn, and she said something about needing narrative distance… But what the hell does that mean? How can one write, if not from one's own experiences? I took a lot of creative license with this. Don't you think I—"

"Diane, please," he said.

She pursed her lips, looking rather stricken.

"Perhaps it's not obvious to you," he said gently, joining her on the sofa with the script in hand, "but I _know_ what this was about."

"Sumner…"

He cleared his throat, cutting her off. "Diane, it's abundantly clear to me that you are still harboring feelings for _someone_ from your past." He put extra emphasis on the word "someone", raising one of his fabulous, intelligent eyebrows to better accentuate the point. "I'm starting to think that I… well, I'm beginning to regret the position I put you in, all those years ago. I think I made a mistake."

For a moment she stared at him, a terrified look in her eyes and her bottom lip trembling. Then she began to cry. Sumner privately enjoyed this, because he really liked when women cried. He wasn't sure why. It was just something he enjoyed A LOT, especially if he was responsible for it.

"Oh, Sumner," she said. "I didn't… I mean, I guess I knew all along – who…who Stan really was. I just… didn't want to admit it. It's really pathetic, isn't it?"

"I don't think it's pathetic. It's partly my fault."

Her eyes widened. "Sumner, I can't believe you're saying—I mean, maybe I needed to hear it from you. Is that crazy? I've just been so confused about all of it. I tried to convince myself it was all for the best, but it just never felt that way, and… and if even _you_ think it was a mistake… I… I haven't exactly been crazy about you, after everything that happened, but you're… are you _apologizing_?"

Sumner didn't really like the sound of that, but he decided to go along with whatever she was blabbering about. "I suppose," he said. "Yes."

"Oh god, Sumner," she breathed, "I guess I still love him. I guess I have all along. But it's… do you think it's too late? I mean, what should I _do_?"

"I certainly don't think it's too late, Diane."

"Really?" She spoke in almost a whisper.

"Really." She'd stopped crying, so he lost interest in looking at her and picked up the script, skimming the first few pages. "And frankly, I don't think you need that much more narrative distance in this thing."

"What?" It seemed she was still dwelling on her undying love for him, and hadn't processed the shift in conversation. "Oh. That thing. It's… you don't find it, uh, transparent?"

"Hardly!" Sumner said. "I mean, the way you write this Stan character… If I didn't know you so well, I would hardly be able to guess that he's based on me. It's really just the raw animal magnetism that gives him away."

"What?" The color drained from her face – probably the result of his aforementioned raw animal magnetism, something like that. "Oh," she said weakly. "Um, right. Of course."

He'd really need to change his business cards. Sumner Sloan: professor at Boston University, resident genius, LADYKILLER EXTRAORDINAIRE.


	4. One For My Baby, Another For The Road

_Notes: It's getting really fucking META! I'll let you all know that Grover's Meadow is my longtime rendering of Bizarro Cheers, which I've tried to incorporate in at least three non-fanfic stories… Not really working… I keep thinking about that old saying "kill your darlings." But anyway, I hope it works here! In case you've lost track, please recall that we will soon have three sets of Sams and Dianes running around LA: "Stan" and "Marianne" (whatever the fuck their real names are), Sally Bong and Ted Waltzin, and of course, our very own Sam and Diane. THIS MIGHT GET INTERESTING! BUT I DON'T EVEN KNOW BECAUSE I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS!_

When Sam informed the bar he would be journeying to LA, Carla was the first to voice her disapproval. But he'd been expecting that and came prepared.

"For your information," he told her snidely, "this has nothing to do with Diane Chambers. In fact, who the hell is Diane Chambers? I don't even know who you're talking about."

Norm raised a hand, as if in class. "Uh, she's the waitress who left you at the altar, put your heart through a paper shredder, induced you to sell the bar and buy a boat which you subsequently sunk, after which you spent three years groveling around here until you managed to get it back by turning in Rebecca's fiancé to the authorities, thereby putting _her_ heart through a paper shredder. Hey, that's kind of cyclical. Interesting."

Oh, right, that's who she was. He'd thought the name rang a bell. "Um," he said. "Well, anyway…" He pulled a hand-addressed envelope from his coat pocket and passed it to Carla.

"Sally Bong?" she said.

"Exactly. Sally Bong just happens to be my favorite actress IN THE UNIVERSE, and I wrote her a letter that I would like to deliver in person. Okay?"

"I didn't know you knew how to write," Carla said, shrugging.

"Sally Bong?" Norm said. "Isn't she on that show?"

"Oh, yeah," Carla chimed in. "With the really handsome male lead. What's his name? Ted… Waltzin?"

"I thought it was Ted Tangoin," said Norm.

"Ted Groovin?" Rebecca guessed. She winced. "I dunno, I always thought he was pretty repulsive."

"Are you kidding?" Sam said. "That guy's a stud. Have you seen his hair? You all know the way I swing, but I mean… if I was in prison and I _had_ to have a roommate, I think I'd go with him before anyone else."

"Cheers to that," said Carla. "Anyway, Sammy, if you're really just gonna deliver your love letter to Sally Bong, I guess I don't have a problem with this. But you better not get any ideas."

"Hey," he said, "when do I ever get ideas?"

"Good point."

"So," said Norm, "are we going on a road trip?"

"Oh." It hadn't occurred to Sam to bring anyone along, but company might be nice! "All right, I can only fit five in my car. Who wants to come?"

"Four," Norm corrected. "We need the middle seat for the beer cooler."

"Oh, right. Okay… Rebecca can come 'cos she's my number one gal pal, and she just got dumped." Rebecca let out a wail at this reminder – her husband, Don, had just filed for divorce. "Norm can come 'cos he's my bro… Cliff can come because he has an Oedipus complex and needs strong male role models, a job for which I obviously qualify… I guess that's everyone. Carla and Woody, I would invite you, but I need you guys to run the bar."

"You're just ditching us?" Carla said, scowling. "You expect me and Ricky Retardo over there to run this entire bar by ourselves while you go off chasing skirts?"

"Is that really very different from usual?"

"I guess not," she conceded.

"Anyway, Carla," he said, clapping his hands on her shoulders. "I'm putting you in _charge._"

"You… you are?"

"Yeah, you're in charge of everything while I'm gone."

"Everything?" A twisted grin crossed her face. "Well, all right, Sammy. Have fun."

"What about me?" Paul said. Sam blinked.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Paul!"

"Um…"

"I've come in here every day for, uh, fifteen years or so."

"Oh, whatever. Well, sorry Pat, but my 'vette is reserved for people who anyone actually cares about."

"Darn," he said sadly.

They started out the next morning – Cliff and Norm in the back, Backseat Becky up front. She'd wanted to take the seat next to Norm, so as to be closer to the booze, but both of them were looking increasingly like beached whales and when they tried this configuration, it seemed the beer cooler wouldn't fit at all. As a kind of consolation prize, they'd handed her a bottle of Jack Daniels, which she sipped contentedly as they drove along. Cliff, meanwhile, had just gotten one of those new-fangled cell phones – a gift from his mother for "emergencies" – and had spent the entire drive thus far talking to her on it.

"Jesus Christ," Sam mumbled. "Don't those things run out of batteries eventually?"

Finally it did; Cliff seemed rather alarmed by this sudden separation from his mother, and they tried to distract him with conversation.

"So," Norm said, "Sally Bong. I didn't know you watch _Grover's Meadow_, Sam."

"Oh," he said, "I actually haven't seen it. I just liked her in Troop West Hollywood."

"You haven't seen it?" Rebecca gasped.

"Ma and I watch it every Thursday!" Cliff said.

"Yeah, me and Vera too." Norm craned his neck to look at Sam, who was partially blocked from view by Rebecca's encroaching girth. "You should watch it if you like Sally Bong, it's _great_."

"Uh-huh," he said. "Yeah, I've heard. It's like a… Ross and Rachel kind of thing, right?"

"It's _so_ much better than Ross and Rachel," Rebecca said. "Even if the guy is kind of a dink. My favorite is the manager of the pet cemetery."

"Veronica!" Cliff said.

"Yeah, Veronica. She's hilarious, Sam. She's like… this business school grad who thinks she's a great manager, but she's always making the dumbest mistakes and getting everyone in trouble."

"So it's… it's set in a pet cemetery?" Sam asked. This seemed kind of weird to him, but whatever. Sally Bong was a babe and would probably still be perfectly hot cremating dead rabbits – no pun intended.

"Yes." Rebecca launched into a lengthy explanation. "You see, it's about this… libertine kind of guy, I guess, named Jim Grover, and he inherits his father's pet cemetery. He doesn't really want to do it but he has all this, like, inner turmoil 'cos he had a strained relationship with his dad."

"His dad always wanted him to be a human mortician," Norm added, "but he never made the cut."

"He's such a dink," Rebecca said, rolling her eyes. "Like, who cares about your whiny daddy issues, Jim Grover? NOT ME! But anyway, in the pilot this really snobby woman named Georgette shows up with her fiancé… What the hell was his name?"

"William Spenser," Cliff answered. "It's a little known fact that he was named after two famous social Darwinists… William Graham Sumner and Herbert Spencer."

"Oh, right," said Rebecca. "I should have remembered that."

"I always wonder why they didn't call him Sumner instead of William," Norm said. "It's a funnier name."

"Maybe there was already a sitcom character named Sumner for William Graham Sumner," Rebecca shrugged.

"Who would name a sitcom character after William Graham Sumner?!"

"I don't really care about this," Sam said. "What happens with Georgette?"

"Okay," Rebecca continued, taking a deep breath. "Well, she and Spencer were planning to buy a kitten, and when they find out that it's a pet _cemetery_, not a pet _shelter_, he tells her to wait there while he finds a more suitable place… and then he never comes back."

"So she becomes the receptionist?"

"Yeah, Jim offers her the job and she's really bitchy about it at first, but she sorta comes around. I don't know. It's hard to explain. They just have a lot of chemistry, I guess."

"I had to stop watching with Vera," Norm said, chuckling to himself. "After the first season. It was getting her too worked up."

"Same with Ma," Cliff said.

Everyone cringed. But however disturbed he was by this uninvited image of Ma Clavin, Sam resolved that he would definitely check out this show.


	5. You Can't Run, But You Can Hide

_Notes: I have so much shit I'm supposed to be doing this week and instead I just keep WRITING THIS CRAZY STORY. I hope you are all enjoying it._

Diane found herself in a pickle, to use some baseball-ese. Sumner's surprising words had led her to realize who Stan really was, but she couldn't very well tell him who she'd actually been talking about now that she'd realized he didn't know! He would, like, totally judge her, and Diane had the good sense to know that that was what was important here. But damn – now she had Stan _and_ Sumner to deal with? Why did all men have to fall desperately in love with her? It was such a curse. But anyway, she decided the best thing to do was to keep lying. Emotional dishonesty had never failed her in relationships before! Wait… No, better not to go there. She would keep lying.

"Sumner," she said tentatively. "Despite the fact that I'm, like, you know, in love with you or whatever…" (God she was selling this! She should be an actress!), "I think perhaps it would be prudent for us to, uh… hold off on… expressing these emotions."

He looked at her curiously.

"It's not because you're old," she said quickly.

"I didn't think it was because—"

"I promise it's not because you're old and have a weird flabby face and a stupid voice. That has nothing to do with it, Sumner. It's just… well, poor Stan."

"Ah, yes." Sumner nodded sagely. "Poor Stan indeed. We'll have to let him down easy. I'd imagine the lad has no notion that he's just a… replacement Sumner?"

"No, he hasn't a clue. And he's been so kind to let me stay with him since…"

"Yes, of course," Sumner cut her off. "I won't make a nuisance of myself. Where is the guest bedroom, Diane?"

"I… what?"

"The guest bedroom. I have my things in the car."

"You're staying here?!"

"Where else would I stay?" he said blankly. "I know you can't bear to be parted from me for even an instant."

At first she felt completely trapped by this, but then an idea crossed her mind. "Yes, of course," she said. "We don't have a guest room but I can set you up on a futon in Stan's office. Why don't you go get your things?"

"Will you be all right alone?"

"Um, yes Sumner, I think I can handle it."

As soon as he was out of sight she sprang to her feet and sprinted upstairs to the bedroom she shared with Stan. Luckily he was a habitual cannabis smoker who had bouts of paranoia at night, and had secured his door with three murderer-proof locks. If the door could keep out murderers, it would probably work for Sumner too, right? Indeed, she remembered seeing some weird news story about how he had singlehandedly murdered the souls of an entire TV audience and had somehow gotten off on a technicality. The locks, she thought, were designed for people like him as much as anyone else.

Her very excellent plan, of course, was to stay there forever or until her problems magically resolved themselves. God, she was good! Diane Chambers didn't have a master's degree in twenty-seven different majors for nothing!

From the window she saw him returning to the house, and – since it wasn't particularly big –he tracked her down in a few minutes. She heard his voice from beyond the door. "Diane?" He knocked a few times. "What are you doing in there?"

What _was_ she doing in there? Christ, she needed some kind of alibi. What could she say to scare him off? What were men afraid of, more than anything? "Um," she said, "I'm on my period."

At first, only a stunned silence. Then he said, "Oh," in a tone that conveyed simultaneous terror and understanding. "I'm… I'm so sorry. I'll… How long do those things last?"

"Uh, like seven days."

"Okay, we'll talk in a week, Diane."

She heard him sprinting away and sank onto the bed in relief. She'd bought some time! Once the seven days were up, maybe she'd tell him that she was pregnant or wanted to get married or was reading a bunch of feminist zines about dismantling the patriarchy.

Later that evening she heard Stan return home – though she could hardly think of him as Stan anymore, now that she was aware of the transparency of her script. "Fake Sam" seemed more suitable. She might have used his real name if she could just remember it – wasn't it Heinrich or something? Well, no matter. She'd go with "Fake Sam." Apparently he'd encountered Sumner upon entering the house, because he didn't risk approaching the door. She heard a pebble hit the window and peered out, finding the two of them staring up at her.

"We didn't want to get too close in case, uh…" Sumner began in explanation. In case what? Perhaps it was better not to ask how they were imagining this phenomenon. "Well, Stan here just wanted to say hello."

"Diane?" he called. "Are you okay?"

"Um," she said.

"Don't mind her," Sumner said, clapping Fake Sam on the back. "She's clearly hysterical."

"Yes," he agreed, looking concerned. "I can tell." He paused. "Since you'll be in there for seven days, I was thinking of rigging up something so we can send you food. We don't want to get too close to the door in case…" He trailed off.

God, they were stupid. "Yes, Fake Sam," she said. "That sounds reasonable."

"What did you call me?"

"Nothing."

With some effort they installed a kind of makeshift dumbwaiter by tossing up a rope and looping it over the windowsill. Both Fake Sam and Sumner seemed deeply relieved when this task had been completed.

"Well," Fake Sam said, "we'll just leave you alone now."

Once by herself, her relief subsided quickly into boredom. What the hell was she supposed to do up there for seven days? More pressingly, how was this going to solve anything? She turned on the TV but found the stupid show about the really vulgar little boys in Colorado was playing, and turned it back off. She picked a book of poetry from the bedside table but couldn't focus on it. Finally she turned to the phone. Could she really bother him again with this bullshit? He'd already done so much, and hadn't seemed exactly pleased with her during their last meeting, but she could think of no one else who might be of assistance. Quickly, before she could second-guess the decision, she dialed Frasier's number.

"Diane?" he said, upon hearing her voice. "What is it now?"

In a breathless gust of words she explained to him all that had unfolded – her realization about the play, Sumner's appearance, and the lie she'd told to avoid it all. He listened patiently, always the psychiatrist.

"Well…" He seemed a little hesitant. "Diane, I'm not sure this 'solution' of yours is really going to work. You might be better off just, you know, facing the problem."

Facing the problem? Who was this guy? Had he ever _met_ her? "I just don't know how," she whispered.

"Look…" he said slowly. "I wasn't going to say this – I worried you might consider it a breach of confidence – but I actually, uh, called Sam after you left."

"You did?" She was too excited by this new development to feel particularly betrayed, at least at first. "What did he—"

"To be frank, Diane, he wasn't paying much attention to me at all. He was watching this cartoon about some very vulgar little boys in Colorado."

"Oh…"

"I don't know," Frasier continued, and it sounded as if he really didn't. "I couldn't get a read on him, Diane. After I finally managed to explain why I was calling, he just started going on about his hair. It was very poetic. I got sort of lost. But what I'm saying is… I don't think you can expect this thing to just resolve itself."

"I… I see," she said weakly. "Well, thank you Frasier."

She hung up before hearing his response. So – Sam did know what was going on, but had chosen instead to direct his energies towards his hair. Well, what the fuck else was new? Still, Frasier had said he couldn't get a read on the situation. Maybe the hair was just a sort of default thing to talk about, and didn't mean he didn't care? Was it possible he'd show up?! Without thinking, she grabbed the phone again and dialed his private line at Cheers.

She got the answering machine.


	6. The Pacific, To Be Specific

After about a day of driving, Sam's car fell into a weird time warp thing and was transported to LA. This happened because his benevolent god realized that it takes about a week to drive from Boston to California, and that in that time span Diane would definitely run out of things to do, considering she was secluded in a single room alone. By sundown they had reached the Pacific, and parked on a scenic vista overlooking the beach. Sam let out a low whistle.

"Boy," he said. "Look at those waves."

"Actually," Cliff said, "they're the same waves from the Atlantic. In fact, all water is recycled via the process of hydroelectrosymbiosis – a fascinating theory ascribed to—"

Rebecca, who had been steadily making her way through the bottle of Jack Daniels, now wielded it blindly over her shoulder and smacked Cliff in the head. He collapsed into the beer cooler, completely unconscious.

"Oh, thank god," Sam said. "I'm so glad we fell into that time warp thing, I really couldn't have handled six more days of him. Hey, why don't you guys go out and look at those waves?"

"I dunno, Sammy." Norm reached into the cooler, digging around Cliff's head to extract another beer. "He sorta had a point. They look the same as the ones back home to me."

"Why don't you look closer, then?"

"You do it," Rebecca muttered, her head lolling back.

"GO LOOK AT THE FUCKING WAVES! IT'S REALLY IMPORTANT TO ME YOU GUYS OH MY GOD!"

Norm and Rebecca were starting to sense that this was really important to Sam. Apparently, all those years at the bar had enhanced their powers of perception. "Fine," Norm said irritably. He unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed open the door, lugging the cooler after him.

"Bring Cliff too," Sam said.

"But he's not even conscious!"

"HE CAN STILL FEEL THE SEA BREEZE CAN'T HE?!"

"There's plenty of sea breeze in the car," Norm protested, but he knew even while speaking that his efforts were in vain. After extracting the cooler, he grabbed Cliff's arms and yanked him out.

Sam rolled down the window, gesturing vaguely into the distance. "Well? Are you gonna go look?"

"Aren't you coming?" Rebecca asked.

Sam started the car.

"Hey Sam," Norm said. "Why are you starting the car?"

He shifted into reverse.

"Is he, like, driving away without us?" Rebecca said.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Why's he doing that?"

"I dunno."

"I HAVE TO RUN AN ERRAND OKAY I'LL SEE YOU LOSERS LATER! DON'T TELL CARLA!" Sam screamed out the window. And then he was gone.

"Well!" said Rebecca.

"Well," Norm agreed. He looked down at Cliff and the cooler. "At least we still have all the booze."

"Yeah." Rebecca shrugged. "Whatever."

They lugged Cliff and the cooler towards the beach and settled onto a sand dune, Norm finishing off his beer while Rebecca continued to make progress with her bottle of whiskey. Were she not totally shitfaced, she might have found it impressive that the bottle hadn't broken on contact with Cliff's skull, but unfortunately, Rebecca was always totally shitfaced these days and didn't notice much of anything.

"Hey," she said suddenly. "Where'd Sam go?"

Norm popped open the tab on another beer. "I think he's probably looking for Diane."

"Diane… Keaton?"

"Um."

"Feinstein? Diane Feinstein?! Isn't she like, sixty-three?"

"I mean, she's pretty cute for sixty-three."

"I _guess_," Rebecca said. "I dunno, maybe I'm just more of a Barbara Boxer kind of girl."

"It's _such_ a toss-up." He coughed. "Anyway, I meant Diane _Chambers_."

"Who the fuck is that?" She reached towards Cliff, thinking she would google this on his phone, then remembered it was 1996 and none of that had been invented yet. Could she call Cliff's mom and ask for deets? That was sort of like Wikipedia, without the fact-checkers, right? As it turned out, Norm had all the information she would need.

"Remember?" he said. "Sam's old girlfriend? The one who pretended to be married to the gay dog groomer?"

"Oh, right." Rebecca had finished the bottle of JD and angled it over her mouth, banging on the bottom with her hand to see if she could extract a few stray droplets. "The one who got him to sell the bar, thus enabling this glorious chapter of my life to begin."

"Yeah, that's the one!"

"But what about Sally Bong?"

"Oh," Norm shrugged, "I think that was just an alibi."

"An alibi?! But she's so cute and spunky!"

"I guess Diane is cute and spunky enough for him."

But Rebecca could not fathom how anyone could be cuter and spunkier than Sally Bong. With some difficulty she drew her knees to her chest, staring out dolefully at the crashing waves. It was just so unfair! Norm had Vera, Cliff had his mom, Woody had Kelly, Carla had the men she met at her Sadomasochists Anonymous support group… and now even Sam had someone? Not only _someone_ but someone he considered cute and spunky enough to eclipse the cuteness and spunkiness of Sally Bong? Meanwhile, she was still alone. Frankly, it was bullshit.

"How do you know, though?" she asked. "Maybe he's just getting flowers or something for Sally Bong." She had really been looking forward to watching Sam get shot down by Sally Bong, or better yet, shot down by the team of National Guard troopers surrounding Sally Bong's house to prevent her from getting too many random marriage proposals. That would have been_ fun_. This was hardly fun at all, especially now that she was out of whiskey.

"Well," Norm said, "the time warp was my first clue. And then when he told us not to tell Carla, it all became pretty obvious."

"The time warp?"

"Well, yeah, I've just heard that God ships them really hard."

Ships? Rebecca had never heard this word before, but somehow it made perfect sense, though she could not have provided a definition if asked. "It sure didn't seem that way last time Diane came to Boston."

"Oh, well, that was a different god," Norm said. "He got fired for criminal negligence. You didn't watch any of that trial?"

Rebecca shook her head; she must have been passed out in a gutter at the time.

"It was pretty interesting," Norm said. "The judge was like, 'I wanna ask you about this World War II thing, and this Rwandan Genocide thing, and also this Sam and Diane thing.' He was totally stymied. He didn't know what to do. Criminal negligence, indeed."

Well, why didn't this fuckheaded god have the decency to ship Rebecca/Bill Gates? Or Rebecca/Warren Buffett? Not even Rebecca/Vladimir Putin? Rebecca/United States Mint? She should really become a Satanist. Setting the whiskey bottle aside, she drew a pentagram in the sand.

Oh, would she ever find love?!

With some difficulty, Rebecca hobbled to her feet. "Let's go, Norm."

"Where?"

"To find more whiskey!"

Norm peered into the beer cooler, finding it almost completely empty, and also hurried to his feet. "Good call." He glanced at Cliff. "What about him?"

"Can't we just leave him?"

"On the beach?"

"He'll he _fine_," she said, waving a flippant hand. "I mean, when do you ever hear about people being murdered in LA?"

"Practically never," Norm agreed. "Come on."

And so Norm and Rebecca beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly in the direction of the nearest liquor store.


	7. The Brave Little Mormon

_Notes: I have no idea why I'm making these weird recurring South Park jokes because wtf I don't even like South Park very much. But I always thought that Sam probably would, and I like to think if he and Diane ever actually managed to get married that one day he'd let their kids watch it and she'd find out and get SO MAD and he'd be like "omg get over it girlfriend, IT'S A CARTOON! U SO UPTIGHT" and they'd get in a stupid screaming argument over it and then forget what they were fighting about and have awesome makeup sex. Oh my god why didn't they just get married?! Anyway…_

Neil – also known as Stan, Fake Sam, and Buttercup (the latter was used mostly by his mother) – was starting to find this all a little suspicious. Who was this cocky professor and why did he think he was somehow entitled to move in? He claimed to be a friend of Diane's – well, so what? This wasn't Diane's house! He really should have dumped her ass at Tito's when he had the chance, but, he reasoned, perhaps this Sumner character could explain some of the weirdness. He'd determined that Marianne was her, Frederick was her friend Frasier, but who were Stan, Darla, and Ned? Neil had an inquisitive mind; if he was going to extract himself from this bizarre circumstance, he wanted to know the whole story.

They sat across from each other in the living room, drinking coffee that Neil had prepared – one of his greatest flaws was chronic politeness. "So," he began awkwardly. "How do you know Diane?"

"We were once engaged to be married," Sumner said. "And she was my teaching assistant, back in Boston."

Engaged to be married? Marianne and Stan got engaged in the play… Neil considered this. "Do you own a bar?" he asked.

"Oh, no," Sumner said. "But I own a _barn_, in my place upstate. And I'm thinking of owning a _BART_."

"BART?"

"Bay Area Rapid Transit. I was going to buy one of the trains and rig it up for an easy commute between my barn upstate and my residence in Boston."

"Are you a baseball player?"

"God no, but I'm undefeated in croquet."

Well! Perhaps Diane was more creative than he'd given her credit for – she'd changed "barn" to "bar" and "croquet" to "baseball." "Are you… you've read her play, right?"

Sumner nodded.

"Are _you_ Stan?"

"Well…" Sumner sighed. "I was hoping we could tell you together, but then _that_ had to happen…" He inclined his head towards the stairs, indicating the room where Diane was secluded. "I suppose I'll just tell you myself. Yes, Stan. I am Stan. Stan I am. Would you like green eggs and—"

"I'm really okay."

"Sorry, sometimes a poetic impulse seizes me. I just made that up off the top of my head. I'm quite brilliant."

"Right."

"Anyway, since Diane is so desperately and irreparably in love with me, I think your time with her may be coming to an end. I'm sorry to break the news."

"Oh…" Neil shrugged. "It's really okay."

A knock sounded at the door, jarring them both. Neil jumped to his feet. "I'll get that."

It turned out to be Patrice, the actress who played Marianne. She and Neil had gotten pretty close over the year, since Diane insisted on them having rehearsals every day for twelve hours straight. You got to know a person that way. He invited her in, and she followed him to the living room, carrying a tray of brownies.

"I just wanted to drop these off," she said, shrugging. "I had extras and thought they might help you sleep." She glanced at Sumner, her nose wrinkling as she tried to determine what could be said in the stranger's company. "Don't let Diane get into them," she murmured. "I put some, uh, Sour Diesel in the butter."

"Sour Diesel?" Sumner said excitedly. "You mean, like, fuel? Are you trying to poison someone?"

"Sort of," Patrice said. She paused. "Where's the nutcase?"

"Oh," Neil said, "she's upstairs. She's on her," he lowered his voice to a whisper, looking meaningfully at Sumner, "period."

"So what?" said Patrice.

"What do you mean, so what?"

"I mean, why does that matter? I'm on my period right now."

Neil felt a surge of terror swell in his heart. "WHAT?"

"I mean, it's not biblical times, you gu—"

"OUT, DEMONESS!" Sumner shrieked. Patrice looked between them.

"Fine," she said, sounding bored. "See you later, Neil."

Once she left, Neil stuck the brownies in the fridge and sank onto the couch, grateful to have survived that shocking encounter. "God," he said. "I have no idea what that whole period thing is about, and I _really_ don't want to know."

"Preachin' to the choir," Sumner agreed. "I just don't trust anything that bleeds for seven days and doesn't die." He chuckled. "I just made that up."

"Isn't that from South Park?"

"No, I just made it up. South Park probably stole it from me."

"But…" Neil was cut off by another knock at the door. He felt a sinking in his stomach; Sumner looked equally disarmed.

"I'll get it," Sumner said finally. "You were so brave the last time."

Neil trailed after Sumner, watching from a distance. To his great relief, the knocker was not a woman at all, but a tall, hairy guy. Upon seeing Sumner, his mouth dropped open.

"Sumner?!"

"I'm sorry," Sumner said, "but I'm not interested in becoming a Mormon."

"I'm not—what are you doing here?"

"Ugh," Sumner groaned, stepping back from the door. "Come in if you insist. But please know that I'm very content with my choice in religion – I made it up, actually, it's a mixture of extremist evangelical Christianity, militant Jihadism, with some good old fashioned Satanist tenants at its foundation."

He stepped inside. A moment later the tall, hairy man spotted Neil, and glanced dopily between the two of them like a deer in the headlights. "Where's… Is Diane here?"

"She's upstairs…" Neil said uneasily. "Do you… how do you know her?"

"Uh, I guess I'm an old friend."

"Diane isn't friends with Mormons!" Sumner cried.

"I'm not a—" He cut himself off, turning to face Neil. "Who are you?"

"I guess I'm her boyfriend," he said. "Or I was. I don't really know what's going on."

The tall, hairy man seemed encouraged by this. "Right, okay. Someone told me… Um, you're an actor, right?"

Neil nodded.

"Has she been like… paying you to pretend to be, uh, someone else?"

"Yes," Sumner cut in. "She's been paying him to pretend to be me."

The tall, hairy man whirled to face Sumner. "You?!"

Sumner seemed unphased. "Yes, me. I have no idea how you've made Diane's acquaintance, since to my knowledge she does not cavort with Mormons, but perhaps it will put your weird little mind at ease to know that she's _desperately_ in love with me. Stan here," he clapped Neil on the back, "was merely a replacement Sumner."

"Replacement… Stan…" The tall, hairy man grew rather red in the face, sputtering to himself as he tried to make sense of all this. "You?!" he managed finally. "She's not in love with _you._"

"Then why did she tell me so yesterday afternoon, Mr. Mormon?" Sumner said haughtily.

"She…" His voice remained steady, but Neil saw his shoulders droop. "She did not! There's no way." Sumner rolled his eyes, further inciting the tall, hairy man. "Where is she?" he demanded, grabbing Sumner by the shoulders. "I need to talk to her."

"She's upstairs," Sumner said, and the tall, hairy man released him, looking around for where the stairs might be. "But you can't see her. She needs to be left alone."

"Why?!"

"She's on her period," Neil whispered.

This seemed to unnerve the tall, hairy man, just a little. "Oh," he said, making a face. "I've gotta say, I have no idea how that works. I'm pretty spooked by it."

"Aren't we all?" Sumner said wistfully.

"Uh, we can take you around back," Neil suggested. He had a feeling that this tall, hairy guy was not really a Mormon, but some missing piece of the puzzle, and wanted to see how Diane would respond to his arrival. "We've been talking to her through the window."

"We really shouldn't disturb her with something so trite," Sumner began, but the tall, hairy man had already started looking for the back door. They followed him outside, where he picked up a stone and lobbed it in a smooth trajectory at the window.

It opened.

"Sorry to bother you, Diane," Sumner shouted up, "but this man wants to talk to you about Joseph Smith."

"Diane?" the man called. She appeared as a shadowy outline in the darkness, illuminated only by the lights in the room.

"Sam?!" she called back, sounding incredulous.

_Sam?_ Neil thought. Wait a minute…

"Sam, what are you do—"

"What the hell is going on?" he interrupted her.

"I don't know!"

The tall, hairy man – Sam, apparently – scowled, seeming unsatisfied by this answer. He grabbed Sumner by the shoulder and rattled him back and forth a few times, still looking at Diane. "What's _he_ doing here?"

"I told you," Sumner said shakily – not because he was insecure in what he was saying, but because he was recovering from being used as a kind of human maraca. "She's desperately in love with me."

"Diane?!" Sam shouted again. He seemed to be asking her to tell him that this wasn't true, but Neil could just barely make out her face, and saw she was watching them with a baffled, helpless expression.

"Um, right," she said. "I'm like, desperately in love with him."

"What the fuck!" Sam shouted, and began stomping back towards the house.

"Wait," she called. "Sam, don't…"

He turned – and for a split second it seemed to Neil that, as far as they were concerned, the rest of the world had vanished. "Diane," he said, more calmly now. "Can we talk?"

They stared at each other for a few seconds, but then Diane's eyes roved around the yard and she seemed to lose her nerve.

"Um," she said, "I'm pregnant, want to get married, and have been reading a lot of feminist zines about dismantling the patriarchy."

"Oh god," Sumner said, wincing. "Run, Mormon boy! Back to Utah, while you still have a chance!"

"Wait," Neil said, his forehead creasing. "You want to get married AND dismantle the patriarchy? How is that supposed to work?"

"OH," she yelled, "SHUT UP, FAKE SAM! WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING HERE?!"

"It's my HOUSE!"

"Oh, right."

"Diane," Sam said, "I really don't care about those things."

"You… you don't?"

At first he seemed a little unsure, but then he glanced Sumner and it seemed to strengthen his resolve. "No," he said firmly. "I came all this way to talk to you, and I'm gonna talk to you. Can I come upstairs?"

For a second she hesitated – but then glanced Sumner, which seemed to strengthen her resolve. "Yes," she said, her voice barely audible from such a distance.

Without looking at either Neil or Sumner, Sam walked back inside. Once the door had shut behind him, and the window above as well, Sumner shook his head. "I don't say many nice things about Mormons," he said to Neil, "but that one there is a braver man than us by far."


End file.
